


In Victory Be Humble, In Defeat Be Strong

by SkyHighDisco



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Drama, Elche, Emotional Hurt, Family, Gen, Hopeless Luka, Hurt/Comfort, Ivan and Marcelo are sweethearts, Luka definitely needs the hug but doesn't want it, September 11th 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-07-20 07:55:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16132964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyHighDisco/pseuds/SkyHighDisco
Summary: Elche, 6:0. One of the best players in the world lived something he never thought possible: the worst defeat in the history of his National team. But someone's already been there and knows how it feels, right?





	In Victory Be Humble, In Defeat Be Strong

**Author's Note:**

> _„It was one great silence post-match in the dressing room. What can I say..."_ – Josip Pivarić after the game against Spain, _11\. 9. 2018._

He rested his sweaty head against the wall, moist hair obscuring his vision, and he was glad. Nobody needed to see the look in his eyes. There were no genuine tears, not this time, but there was a visible defeat. Luka was never good at concealing emotions and perhaps the person who knew that best, and who kept reminding him as much whenever she had a chance, was Vanja. Perhaps this swung center of gravity which made them diverge to almost comical ratio was what really brought them together. 'Diversity combines' was a labile assertion, but one that worked perfectly in their case.

Vanja was nowhere near now, and he never wished for the presence of his wife and children any more than in that moment. There was no song, no cheers, just quiet dialogue among the colleagues and the muffled cheers of _La Furia_ celebrations in the other dressing room.

Ramos' jersey laid crumpled, cast carelessly on his no. 10 spot in the dressing room. It literatim looked like it was here to mock him, with that screaming, conspicuous, persistently present red. Luka made a face, even as he knew it wasn't his friend's fault in the slightest, and that it was only customary for good colleagues to exchange jerseys.

It still wasn't easy.

_6:0_

The mere number made him cringe and it felt like a physical punch worse than any legitimate one he has suffered on the field. How is it going to look now? The captain of the vice-champions of the world allowing his team to sink this low? Modrić could already picture the Marca headlines. Is this the backpage of a man who won the UEFA's Best Player award? He knew both Croatian and Spanish media waited outside for them to offer statements; something that was hardly going to walk out of the Croatian dressing room. The guys back in the studio are gonna have to analyze the game without interruptions from Elche this time. Were it a draw, or even a minor defeat like 2:1, or even 3:1, it would've been acceptable.

But this? This was a nightmare. A nightmare they were all forced to live through, as it will forever remain penned as the worst defeat in Croatian football history, and their faces were on the cover of the book.

Vrsaljko was possibly the best demonstrator at what was currently the pivotal feeling amongst those of them who have already been through tougher games than this. Those being, him, Vida, Perišić, Brozović, Kovačić and, of course, Rakitić and Modrić. When Luka first walked back he noticed him first. He was sitting on his assigned place, repeatedly flicking a coin and catching it in the air. His stare was a blank veil pointed at nothing and at no one, and Luka wouldn't be surprised if his ears didn't register anything, either. But Šime's dark orbs offered more than bleakness. They spoke of inexplicable stolid anger, and the captain could guess why. Not because of Spain victory. They only did what they had to do, and proved the World Cup disgrace was thrown far over their shoulder. It wasn't even perhaps directed at the team itself, even as Modrić did feel a tad of betrayal for having to try and take matters to his own hands more than once, and that, after 20 promising minutes, everyone just started playing for themselves.

No. Šime's anger was directed at no one but himself. At his stupid knee, at the stupid bench at this stupid injustice and unfairness of football and life, because, oh, the ever-familiar, ever-outspoken sentence, ''that was football''. Luka couldn't imagine how he must've felt, sitting there and completely helplessly watching their nation crumble under the ruthless disciplinary formations of _La Furia_ , surely yelling at the top of his lungs, orders and obscenities alike. The dark humor in all of this was even more unwelcome when there was a fact that somewhere west in Italy, Mandžukić was hiding his face among his hands, and up north, Lovren mirrored Vrsaljko's exact expression.

Whatever Blaze they were meant to show as they did on the World Cup, it surely flickered and died off completely after half-time. That Blaze was long distinguished.

Were they really who they were representing themselves for?

What a lovely, two-days-late birthday present.

Tender, calloused hands settled on his shoulders and a head rested among his shoulder blades, sweaty just the same even through the shirt, and it stood there with no intention of near retreat. Luka wanted nothing more but to shake whoever it was off, but had no will or strength even for that. Imagine being so empty that not even irritation is a motivator good enough to satisfy the lost nerves.

The someone behind him sighed, and Luka already knew; he could feel the hands on his shoulders get heavier as his muscles relaxed in recognition.

„This isn't the end", said Ivan.

Luka didn't open his eyes, nor did he turn around, or do any motion. He felt that, if he moved, he would fall apart to a thousand pieces because he wouldn't be able to stand this pressing feeling any longer. ˮAlmost as if it is."

The fingers squeezed. Warningly. ˮYou know better, _brate_. You know better than to say that."

„What would you want me to say?" He didn't recognize the voice that left his throat. It was too dry. Too life-deprived.

Rakitić leaned his head away to stare at the back of his friend's head. ˮWhat you always say. We move on. We always do. Do you think loss is strange to any team? National or the club one?"

„Yes, but not like this."

Rakitić frowned at this wreck of a man he didn't recognize as their captain. He didn't worry the others would see this, since they were occupied by themselves or quietly chattering to each other, but mostly just staring ahead. There was a distinct _'ting!'_ every time Šime would fling a coin. A quiet music to pierce the accusing silence. If they saw their captain like this, _then_ this team is as good as through, particularly from the newbies' perspective. They looked up to the Maestro, and if he shows he accepted this as the ultimate defeat... Rakitić dismissed thinking about the consequences.

Slowly, Ivan moved his hands to turn Luka around so he could see his face. He wasn't surprised to discover he looked about ten years older. The exhaustion, both physical and mental, left him beaten up to the core in only an hour's time.

Ivan minded to set an authoritative facial expression. ˮWe have been lost before. But we found our way back on track, haven't we? We always do. By God, if they stuffed us six balls in that net, we will stuff just as much behind Pickford's ass in October. We are the _Croats_ , goddamit", Rakitić gave his old friend's shoulders a shake in firm emphasis. ˮIf there's anything we do for certain, we fight."

„Yes, we put up quite a fight out there, didn't we?" sarcasm, which was so foreign to Ivan's ears that he was momentarily taken aback, leaked out of Luka's mouth. ˮBoy did we struggle, running around touristically while Spain had the pressing."

„Remember Leo Messi, Luka", Rakitić hissed through gritted teeth. Sense, where did the sense go from Luka's head? ˮYou know why we got Argentina? Yes, Argentina had Messi, but it had him alone. He couldn't drag the entire team on his own, and you know that. You said the same thing to the press yourself. And the _same thing_ goes for you. This is not your fault. Don't make me compare you to Šime right now because I have half a mind to."

„Compare away", Luka gathered Sergio's jersey. Its long sleeves wrapping around his wrist reminded him of a snake. ˮI'm sure you won't have any problems there. Besides, he's right. What's been done is done. There's nothing we can do now", with the coldest, most unfamiliar fashion Ivan had ever heard him talk with, Luka picked up the rest of his belongings and walked past him, not meeting his eye.

„See you in October."

Ivan felt a shudder fluttering down his spine and stiffened up, realizing his eyes began to sting at this cold, completely alien greeting that had never happened among the two before, but he recollected in a dash, fearing others might notice another weeping willow among their rows, particularly the one that was meant to be one of the authority's foundations.

The Barca player was left standing in the full, yet at the same time so empty dressing room surrounded by his pale, soul-crushed colleagues. Vrsaljko kept flipping the coin.

Luka miraculously managed to avoid the press who were thankfully occupied by Spanish players. Marco Asensio — the striker of the two goals of the game, the man who had quickly gained a new ominous nickname amongst Croatian people: The Croatian Executioner — most of all. Luka would say that he was genuinely happy for him; for all of them. They did a tremendous job and have shown the audience Russia practically never happened. Russia? What Russia? — and deep down in his unselfish soul, he probably was. But it was still too soon to feel anything.

Avoiding one evil meant walking into another. Striding down the hall to meet with Dalić and the assistants outside, as invisibly as his small size allowed, he couldn't predict running into Sergio Ramos who was just on his way from the locker rooms. His great friend was in a predictably good mood, though the proud glimmer muted down respectfully when he saw his defeated Real Madrid colleague. His smile thinned out, but still remained present.

„Luka-" he mouthed happily, probably seeking to offer some words of consolation or a congrat regardless. Modrić's throat closed. The Spaniard wore his jersey. The sleeves and midriff tightened around his protruded tattooed muscles, making Sese look like he'd put on a deliberately provocative outfit.

„No, Sergio."

The priorly lingering smile died off at Modrić's brisk decline like it wasn't even there and beneath confusion and sorrow that sprouted like rampant seed in the Spaniard's dark eyes, there was a hint of total comprehension which made Luka's chest tighten even more and turn his stomach around.

He walked past Ramos like they were mere acquaintances with no further word, and Sergio was left in no better position than Rakitić, staring after his allegorically disemboweled friend, pondering and regretful.

  
  


_Los Blancos_ immediately noticed there was something wrong with the engine of Real Madrid.

When they were all back on the grounds of Valdebebas together again, _La Furia_ players minded to grace Luka with a fair dose of apologetic hug. Asensio was particularly thorough there and didn't restrain from uncharacteristically sticking near Luka for the majority of training, always lingering in an unignorable proximity and trying to cheer him up, so the Croatian literally had to tell him to knock it off to get rid of him. The kid was bloody intelligent and stupidly talented, but by God, this was beyond the level of a two-year-old.

Sergio was keeping an unusual, almost private distance, throwing a brisk note here and there, and an occasional high-five after they'd perform a good action, but nothing more. It looked nothing like their usual interactions, but Luka didn't comment, nor did he try to do something about it. There was nothing to say. Spain had won, Croatia had lost. The tables of the World Cup had turned. Simple as that. But he had to admit, the sympathetic looks he was being given from the start were starting to get annoying.

But what really made _Los Blancos_ realize Luka Modrić wasn't himself was the absence of camaraderie and naturally good spirit. He didn't talk to anyone. He did talk, but at the briefest sign of Elche topic approaching, he would become evasive and change the subject a little too fast. ˮI'm fineˮ became his most frequent response to almost everything.

If there was anyone who certainly wasn't buying it, it was Marcelo. The Brazilian possessed this inborn skill to read absolutely every emotion on the most stone-faced people, particularly the negative ones, and Luka was one of those who didn't polish his shields often, if he had ones in the first place. Everything he did he tried by not sticking out from the rest of the team, but by that 'everything', he performed glorious things which made him resurface again and again nonetheless. And unlike most players, individual acknowledgments meant jack to him.

Knowing what Luka stood for, having watched his team build up through the course of the years and reach its culmination on the World Cup a couple of months ago only to have it all crumble in the eyes of the world by his own club colleagues was something that doesn't bear thinking about.

It wasn't like Marcelo couldn't relate.

He found Luka one afternoon sipping on a plastic cup and decided it was time to put a foot down because enough was enough. Not because he out-and-out looked like he was sulking, which he wasn't. He never did; Luka was too selfless for that. It was because of the horrid-looking dark grey rings under his eyes.

He supposed, seeing the ongoing outcome of this conversation, that he should be thankful he caught him alone in one of the compound rooms. The midfielder was browsing through his phone, looking up taken aback at the exploding sound of door opening in this deaf silence.

He blinked and, flabbergasted only in a way the Brazilian recognized as being drawn from deep thoughts, simply breathed, ˮOh."

„You okay?"

„Yeah just... in the middle of a text here, you startled me a little."

„Sorry."

_I casually opened the door with no force. There was no reason for you to be startled other than your nerves being on edge from the lack of sleep._

Marcelo eyed the cup. ˮYou're drinking coffee again."

The midfielder gave a puzzled shrug. ˮCan't a man have more than one a day?"

„This is your fifth coffee."

Luka hitched a breath, words swallowed, whichever wanted to foam out, then squinted. ˮYou counting my coffees, man? What's the big idea?"

„No, it's just... I guess I just want to know if you're alr—"

„I swear, if I gave away every euro for when you guys asked me that question, I'd be homeless already", the Croat gave a humorless, bitterly sarcastic scoff.

Marcelo frowned. ˮWhat, you blame us for worrying?"

„There's nothing to worry about, I'm fine, how many times do I have to—"

„The umpteenth coffee in your hand and that fancy eyeshadow are telling me otherwise."

Luka sighed, eyes closed and face turned sideways from the defender so Marcelo had an undisturbed view over his unique facial features, as well as how more emaciated they looked than usual, wrapped in irrefutable exhaustion. He felt sorry for the Croat, he really did. One worse thing than losing a game is losing it to a friend. And in fair sport it's even worse because it's an inevitable unwilling backstabbing.

„Look, we'll help you get through this, okay? Just, if you would let yourself talk to us—"

„What is there to talk about, huh?" Modrić's head shot up so fast his hair whipped around like swift wings. There was this kind of lasting, long-concealed anger in his eyes that was rarely seen and barely repressed. ˮIt's happened, it's football, no one can change anything. We ruined our reputation we barely even gained. End of story."

„What are you talking about? You lacked some vital team members who were crucial for your World Cup journey, and there's a lot of newbies, too. You just need time to connect and get into it. And if the public doesn't realize this, they are just being morons, there's no other excuse."

The dullness in Luka's eyes was spine-chilling. ˮBut I led them nonetheless."

„Why are you making this so hard on yourself?" Marcelo's voice grew in volume. Then he squinted for a brief moment. ˮWait- you... you don't actually think this is your fault, do you?"

Luka slid a shaky palm down his face. ˮThe captain is responsible for his team."

„You can't seriously mean—ˮ

„Then _what_ is, Marcelo?" Luka bellowed loudly so it echoed like all hell around the small room. ˮI don't like to say it, but I'm the one everyone is looking up to, even as I never wanted anything like it. The way I see it, I'm the one expected to do the majority of the job. And if the captain is not flexible on the field, it reflects on the entire team, on the coach, and therefore on the entire nation. So yes, you could say I have a bit divided opinion on faults."

Marcelo could only stand there, mouth opening and closing in disbelief before he stumbled over the consternation which filled his every bone and muscle. ˮI swear your... _s-stubbornness- -_ "

„You have _no_ idea how it feels."

„Think I don't?" The Brazilian was on a right road to yelling himself. ˮWorld Cup 2014 semi-final." Four words, just enough for Marcelo's face to host a hundred different emotions, each one of them bitter. Luka went speechless in a blink. He knew right away. People who weren't in a position where they represented their country, sport or anything that impacts the entire nation had no idea of the pressure and disgrace the players had to feel when failing because failure at a competition meant failure of the entire homeland. Luka knew it as well.

„At least your ball found the net", he claimed, but there was a lot less certitude when he spoke.

Marcelo barked a humorless laugh. ˮAs if it counted. Their goalkeeper might've as well taken the ball in his hands, offered it to us and generously stepped aside. They were just being _polite_ , you idiot, and you know that. I would rather have lost 10:0 than been given an opportunity to score that mortifying goal, so if you think _you've_ been humiliated, think again."

It wasn't in Luka's nature to argue. It wasn't, and Vanja would often reprimand him for it. She graduated economics, she knew how that worked, and therefore was better at it than him. But arguing just wasn't in his nature. All Luka always wants is every well being to everyone, and perhaps this sort of insubordinate naiveté that hardened like a concrete was the common enemy foregoing the obstacle. But how could he help himself? Every man has the point of brimming, and sometimes good spirit isn't enough to stop it.

Marcelo, slouched stance roping his bearing, intentionally didn't interrupt Luka's silence right away. ˮThen the world is asked to wonder... what happened to the champions", he mumbled quietly, not a trace of his usually bright persona anywhere on his face or in his stance. ˮWhat happened to the homeland of the football king.

We train, we insist, we love, we pursue the dream since childhood, but we do the job that actually hurts us more than it brings us joy. You're right. It's how things are. That's football and the one who can really do the least about it is us, the players. What people see on screen is just the tip of the iceberg. All the dirty marketing is under the surface." He gave a small, sad smile. ˮWe can only enjoy things we are offered amongst ourselves. It's what makes a team, right? Not the goals, the results, the success. Those are good for nothing. It's being there for each other when we need it most. So whether you want it or not, I'm going to hug you now because that's what you need the most right now."

Belated reaction, maybe. Or a built-up frustration which didn't irrationally come off until now, more than a week later, or an actual impact of Marcelo's strong words or even the inevitable awareness that the ''so-called'' vice-champions of the World Cup now shone around the global papers in the darkest of lights. Whatever it was, it was one of those or all of it. Nevertheless, Luka didn't realize it detonated with all of its brutal force until he was gripping the Brazilian in a tight embrace, sobbing his heart out.

_„That wasn't us- - t-this isn't us, Marcelo!"_

The defender inwardly cursed when he felt both his eyes burn with incoming tears of his own and his throat closed so tightly he barely stifled a painful gulp. He hugged the Croatian, fingers caressing soft locks of Luka's hair and the Brazilian had to hold him tighter when Luka leaned into him full weight, crying on inconsolably. His chest protested with an alarming lack of space because he had never seen his friend in this condition. He was always the tough one in the group, one to properly lift spirits when they were downed, with a wit sharper than any other, and the skills even sharper. This total collapse, this catastrophe, the disgrace his Croatian friend must've felt made him nauseous, but Marcelo also identified with him on more levels than he would've liked, and maybe it was the reason he was the only one able to be there for him.

Marcelo had to bring his own breathing under control. Luka's pouring tears moistened up his shoulder already and pure despair in the Croat's wails didn't help for his grip to begin slipping.

„I know", he said, old, old, buried pain resurfacing in his wobbly voice. He quickly kissed the midfielder's head to mask it, belatedly. ˮIt wasn't _us_ , either."

Marcelo was willing to do anything for this man: go through fire, ice, boiling blood, mercury, you name the absurdity. He'll be there. But now he will stand here as much as Luka needed him to, be it until the next morning. He will stand until his legs die, and he will remain standing after they do. Luka needed him and were the inconveniences reversed, the Croat wouldn't hesitate to do the same for him. He kept murmuring words he didn't even catch, holding the midfielder and dropping occasional kisses on his head.

There they stood, alone in the completely empty room with Luka's sobs ricocheting off the walls, two of the most successful men in their profession — who could also call themselves the biggest losers of the football world.

  
  


Once refreshed after a long while, both of them, it was nice to fill the lungs with fresh air again. Luka didn't think much before walking up straight to jersey no. 4 and hugging it from behind. Caught off guard, Sergio grinned, gripping the arms encircling him, not having to turn around.

„Feeling better?"

„Yeah", the Croatian grinned, forehead resting against Ramos' back. ˮYeah, I do."

Sergio patted his arms, letting silence speak for itself. It's been a long time since they needed words to not make it awkward. The leftovers of Madrid wind caressed their hairs and skin, managing to soothe the comfortable atmosphere and cleanse all mute quarrels.

„I'm so sorry, Sese", Luka finally spoke up and Sergio smiled in relief upon hearing his fond nickname emerge from Modrić's mouth again. He had no idea he'd miss it this stupidly much. ˮI acted like a baby."

Ramos managed to turn around in Luka's arms and was released in the meantime. He observed the shorter figure. ˮYou didn't act any different than anyone else would in your place, Lukita. You needed some time alone. I understood that, as did the others."

„It was still wrong, I should've known better", Luka insisted, then, with an arched eyebrow, quoted himself. ˮLoss doesn't define a team, after all."

„It doesn't", Sergio smiled and then nudged his elbow. ˮYou fought well, _hermano_. The way you bolted from one side of the pitch to another back there left even Enrique bedazzled."

„Could you blame me for wanting to score you at least one goal?"

„No, I couldn't. If no one else was gonna do it, then you would", Sese paused, smiling adoringly, and then proceeding cockily: ˮYou know if I knew it was going to end the way it did, I'd order the boys to go easy on you."

Luka squinted. No reason not to play along. ˮJust you wait, idiot. Next match we have, we're busting double as much into your nets."

„Oh, is that how it is?"

„Ohhh, that's how it is."

„Well then.." And before Luka could blink properly, or think to remove the wicked grin off his face, Sergio had him pinned in a position he himself was pinned in a minute prior. ˮOi, guys!" he called through Luka's helpless struggles which made it all the more difficult accompanied by the fact that he couldn't stop giggling. ˮThis little princess still thinks he can best us. Do we have to teach him another lesson?"

Among the yells directed from the fellow Spaniards charging towards them, Luka vaguely heard a ˮGet him!" and promptly realized he was screwed.

This was confirmed by Isco who ran up first with all ten fingers at the ready and began to tickle the Croat senseless. Only Sergio's firm grip kept him from falling over and Luka's laughter rang freely out of his throat for the first time in a week. He stumbled and pulled Ramos along who wouldn't release him, grinning like a maniac when Luka tried his best to shove Isco's swift and lethal hands away, something the younger had no intention on giving up on that easily. His wicked grin was so wide it looked painful.

The moment settled when the midfielder quickly got a break and was engulfed in a group hug when Isco was joined by Carvajal, Nacho and Asensio. The five Spaniards encircled their Croat in an unbreachable circle full of giggles, hair ruffles, and affectionate words, existing in their own, private plane comprehended only by the same individuals who took part on the stadium of Elche. ˮ _El pequeño, el pequeño!_ " they kept mocking the Croatian captain lovingly who couldn't stop giggling and didn't know where to go with his hands.

Marcelo watched from nearby with a smile and had to do his best to hold himself back from intervening. This wasn't his moment. This belonged to Luka and the rest of the 'Elche Apocalypse' team. Nothing else mattered. The most important thing is that the differences were settled that should've been settled long ago, and they were all finally a whole family again.

It just went unsaid.

  
  


„Luka!"

„Hey, Ivan."

„You- this... woah, I haven't- hey there. I haven't heard from you in a while, how are you, _brate_?"

„Never better", Luka offered his phone where he was facecaming a seemingly very confounded Ivan Rakitić a melancholic smile. He decided it was best to cut in to the matter on the spot with no further delay. ˮI'm so sorry, Ivan. For before, you know. And I'm sorry for not contacting you earlier. I have been such a selfish idiot when I should've thought of the well being of the entire team, and not personal doubts."

But Ivan was already shaking his head. ˮNothing is your fault, _budalo_. None of this, and you know it. Our team doesn't need a self-pitying captain. It needs a leader, and I know that back there wasn't you. You may fool everybody else, but never me. I've played with you for ten years, and known you even longer. You gave your everything down on the pitch, and the entire stadium knew it. In my eyes, you've returned to Madrid no less a hero than they did."

Luka, who was shaking his own head by now, a pink flush and a grin of embarrassment expressing his cheekbones, couldn't believe his friend's talent of speech even as he had been taken aback plenty of times before when Ivan unleashed his silver tongue and enriched the souls of everyone who listened. That's what made him such a great people person, and an even better family man.

„Man, you're making me feel embarrassed even when I'm on my own", Luka laughed, a hand finding its familiar way through his hair.

„Everything makes you embarrassed. Even you make yourself embarrassed", Ivan concluded.

„Ha-ha", Modrić paused, strange glimmer adorning his eyes. ˮHow are _you_ feeling, though? You know..."

Even if he wanted to complete the sentence, he didn't have to. A 100th game is supposed to be special, Luka could admit as much from experience. But never this kind of wrong, soul-and-mind-breaking special. Luka had no idea how Ivan must've felt when the final whistle went off and the jerseys introduced at the beginning practically meant nothing.

Rakitić's lips disappeared in a thin line and he arched his eyebrows with a shrug. ˮI have to admit, it wasn't all the same after the game was over, and I would've surely liked to memorize it differently, but what is done is done. 101st will be better, and I'm looking forward to it."

He offered a golden smile that made Luka realize why Raquel agreed to go out with him so fast. Luka had to wait for more than four years before Vanja finally said 'yes'. That was Ivan Rakitić. Even if he was going through the nine circles of hell in with Virgil, he would find at least one good thing in each of them. And most importantly, he would never lose hope. For Luka, there was no better feeling than being the captain who knows he will retire and leave his National team in good hands.

„Thank you, my brother", he said, smiling warmly. ˮThank you for listening. Truly. We will right this wrong, yes?"

„Sooner than you think", Ivan assured him.

„Yeah."

„Yeah."

Before the conversation thread could break now that everything was okay again, Luka rushed on. ˮListen, um, I was thinking. I managed to get together a couple of free days." He bit his lip. ˮWhat do you say we organize a family weekend? I think Vanja misses sharing a good gossip with Raquel, if you know what I mean. And Ema has a new handmade bracelet collection to show to Althea."

How unfair, every time Ivan smiled, he looked ten years younger. Why couldn't Luka be the same? Modrić came to realize just now, however, how it only worked if the smile was truly genuine. Which it was.

„You don't even have to ask, _brate moj_. You know we'll never miss an opportunity to see you guys when it's offered. Count me in."

Luka could only grin like an idiot, once again at the loss of words from this heart magician. They eventually went on to other much more careless topics, discussing the following season in the Champions League.

And how lucky was he, then? Forget the game, forget the stupid results; he had a wonderful wife, beautiful kids for who he'll never stop giving all his love to. And of course, those two guardian angels. Ivan and Marcelo, ever lingering in his proximity to watch for him not to wander astray whenever it gets to be too much. He knows now, how he'll never have to be afraid of the upcoming events anymore.

Games come and go. History is rewritten over and over again. But friends stay forever.


End file.
